


Nameless

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A The Thick Of It fic, starring Malcolm F. Tucker and a ruthless dominatrix. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nameless

He wasn’t in a _relationship_ , strictly speaking; her line of work, as modern as he might think himself, did not lend itself to a relationship, and it wasn’t that the arrangement was a romantic one. At the same time, it didn’t cross the line into business, despite what she did for a living. Neither money nor favor was exchanged, not in courtship nor in currency. He needed stress relief, she needed stress relief, and she found him pleasing for some reason. God only knew why. He neither rebelled nor groveled, and perhaps it was that medium she liked. Or it could simply be a power high. He didn’t really care.

He honestly didn’t know what she got out of it.

Malcolm rested his head in his hands, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to remember that the tie was not, in fact, trying to choke him. And then he remembered that he was alone, for once, and he yanked the tie off, shaking hands undid buttons, until there was a little air in his lungs, and fumbled for his phone in desperation.

But he never called her. That wasn’t the arrangement.

He had her number memorized, of course, so that in case she ever called him, he’d know who it was. She wasn’t saved, though. Mustn’t be saved, in case someone found the number of a known dominatrix in his phone. (What would he put her name in as, anyway? What was the name for what they did?)

But he was not to call her. She was very strict on that point. He didn’t ask why; why wasn’t his business. She said, and so he did. It was such a relief not to have to wonder, not to worry about the machinations behind everything, that he never questioned it.

He didn’t question _her_. Ever.

The press had fucked off, thank god, so he was free to roam again. He sucked in another breath, held it, let it out in a rush. He flipped his phone over, jammed his fingernail under the cover, and popped it off, then took out the battery. Both went back into his pocket, and he stood, making a decision. If she’d have him tonight, she would; if not, he’d find another way to occupy himself. Probably involving a brick wall coming into repeated and violent contact with his forehead.

He took a cab to a few blocks away from her house and walked the rest of the way, slinking into an alley when the opportunity presented itself and reappearing on the other side a few times to throw off any lingering goat fuckers from the press. He didn’t think he was followed, at any rate.

Finally, her house. He rang the bell and self-consciously wiped his feet, wondering what had happened that day to make his previously shiny shoes so scuffed. Sure, he’d been ousted, but what did that have to do with his fucking shoes? Did he have to polish them quite so much?

"It’s my day off, Mr. Tucker." Her voice, rich alto, soothed his nerves like a shiatsu massage.

"Sorry, ma’am."

"You look like shit." He didn’t look up, didn’t ask. If she’d have him, she’d have him. If not, he’d slink back whence he came. "Come in."

His heart lightened with those two little words, and he stepped inside. He wiped his feet again, then toed off his socks and shoes, leaving them by the door.

"Coffee, tea?" she offered, taking his jacket and hanging it up for him.

 _If I have one more cup of coffee, I’ll go up like fucking Chernobyl._ “No, ma’am.”

Her fingernails were a velvety black this time, absorbing the light in a thick matte sheen as her hand cupped him gently under the chin. “Malcolm.”

He didn’t meet her eyes.

"What’s wrong?"

An uncharacteristic flush of shame rose to his cheeks, and he muttered, “Not allowed to call you. Had to come ‘round. Too see if you were… if you’d… have me.”

"I know that," she answered, brushing her thumb lightly over his thin lips before taking her hand away. "But usually you like to swear at me a bit before we get started."

"Fuck, ma’am."

She laughed, and he couldn’t help a tiny smile. “Phone?” He handed over his phone and the battery, watching her slender white hands as she took them from him and set them on the glass table to one side of the door. “Good. Shirt.”

He flushed red again as, one by one, she ordered every article of clothing off his body. When he’d finished, she ran her hand possessively over his shoulders, and he shivered violently, goosebumps rising on his skin.

"Follow me."

"Yes, ma’am."

He followed her down the short hallway to what she called her “guest room,” where she entertained clients. It had once been a bedroom with an attached bath, but after significant modification, it was a single room, half-tiled and half-carpeted; the tiled half was home to a bathtub, a showerhead with an enema end on it, and a drain; the carpeted half, a person-sized cage, a Saint Andrew’s cross mounted on the wall, and a colossal canopy bed with sex swings and shackles hanging from it like fucking jungle vines.

"Get the stink off. Arse first. Do you need help?"

"No, ma’am." He was determined not to be a pain. Once the nasty bit was over with, he unscrewed the disposable tip of the enema, put it in the bin, and moved on to the bath to scrub off. She watched without a word, thumbing through a magazine idly. He was a professional, and was clean in just a few minutes—he normally took his time, as part of the ritual, but he was impatient tonight.

She noticed, of course, but she said nothing. When he was finished, he toweled himself down and stood, awaiting her approval, calmer than he had been all day. All week. All fucking month.

“That’s better,” she murmured approvingly, trailing her fingertips over his back, down, up, down, along his spine. Goosebumps again, even though the water was warm. He was warm, in a gentle, thrumming way, from head to fingers to toes, pooling liquid heat low in his groin, though he wasn’t hard just yet.

Fingernails, deep and gouging, up his back. He gasped at the suddenness of it, but remained where he was, standing more or less at attention, arms at his sides, straight-backed. Maybe that was what she liked. He was rather shameless.

“Good.” She patted his bum approvingly, and he restrained the urge to laugh, but couldn’t help a smile—she smacked him, hard, across the face. “Wipe that smirk off your face, Malcolm,” she said, her English accent sharpening along with her voice. Oh, he loved that voice.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

“When you’re meant to enjoy yourself, you’ll know on account of the mouth on your cock. Clear?”

“Crystal, ma’am.”

“Good. Bring me… mmm… the number three plug, and the lube.” She never said please.

“Yes, ma’am.” She didn’t really go for crawling. Too gauche. So he walked calmly to the trunk at the end of the bed and opened it. Inside was an array of steel toys, dildos to anal plugs to clamps. Whips and the like were kept in the second level, accessed by swinging the top drawer up like a tackle box.

He knew by the depth of the trunk that there was a third level below the second, but had no idea what was in it. Rubber knickers, probably. Crotchless rubber knickers. Then again, maybe not. Too gauche.

He retrieved the anal lube and the number three plug and brought them back to her. “Turn around.”

He did so, standing once again with his hands at his sides, looking over his shoulder as she lubricated the plug with the ease of long practice, and looking abruptly away when she lined it up with his arsehole and started to press inside, slowly, slowly. Too slowly. He whined and leaned back slightly on his heels, and she smacked him hard on the arse.

“Patience is a virtue, Malcolm.” He fucking loved the way she said his name.

“Woe unto the fucking virtuous,” he replied, and, as desired, got another smack for his trouble.

“Don’t test me, Malcolm, or you’ll find yourself upside-down with my fist in your arse and a thirty-millimeter steel rod up your cock.”

“Is _that_ what’s in the third drawer?”

“Yes.”

“Noted.”

She resumed the unrelentingly slow introduction of the plug into his body, and only when it settled firmly into place and she’d tapped it several times on the base to make him twitch did she pronounce him “good” once more.

She’d never called him “good boy.” It was one of the things he liked about her. He was not a boy, thank you. He was a _man_ , and he’d violently set straight anyone who said otherwise. He had done since he was eight.

“The number four whip, if you would,” she murmured, snapping him out of his thoughts. Damn. Number two was his favorite, a long, thin single-tail with a knot at the end. No frills, all business.

Returning to the trunk, he swung the top tray up, checking the little tags on the handles of the implements therein. Number four was a rather short three-tailed flogger. He brought it back to her, then got down on his hands and knees when she asked, blushing lightly as always. All right, maybe a little shame. Just sometimes. He couldn’t help it.

The shame dissipated with the first blow, and had vanished completely by the time his arse and balls were flushed cherry red, hands fists in the carpet, arms trembling with his weight.

Her hand in his hair, yanking his head up for a kiss. He gave it to her, kept aloft only by his desire for her lips, the carpet scorching his knees. He was hard now, trembling, free at last to release all the tension he felt in the day. Fingernails over his shoulders, and he hissed. She shushed him.

“It’s all right. You’re doing very well.” She laid her hand on the back of his neck, guided him down, and he felt no shame now as he rested his head on his arms with his arse still in the air. “Ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Flick. Crack. Smack. Hiss. And again.

And again, and again, there would be welts and bruises and he didn’t care, again, again, “please, ma’am, again,” it was so pure, so elemental, so wonderful, the pain made him soft and he didn’t care, “please, ma’am, again, again…”

Water in his face. He spat and shivered, cold droplets running down his back and chest and shoulders, warming as they reached his elbows, warm as they rolled over his legs. “What the fuck happened?”

“You apparently forgot what the safe word is for,” she said, and something cold in her voice made him shiver more than the water. And the tile, the temperature of the ceramic seeping into his skin. Fuck, he was cold. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Don’t want you to stop,” he said, as if it weren’t more obvious than Graham Norton’s penchant for swallowing.

“And I don’t want you passing out like a Victorian lord at a modern-day peep show, so how about we reach a happy medium where I keep going as long as you know what the fuck you can handle, yes?”

“Sorry, ma’am. Won’t happen again.”

“Too right it won’t. Bed.”

He fell back into the bed with a heaving sigh and closed his eyes; he let her position him as she pleased—wrists shackled to the headboard, with his ankles in straps that held his legs up and spread wide. She’d be having his arse, then. She usually did.

She teased him first, though. Fucked him with the plug with one hand and twisted his balls with the other, and he got harder than a fucking head-on bullet train collision. He was so hard it hurt, and his balls hurt, and his arsehole hurt, and his legs hurt from the position stretching them, and he was lost again, lost in the purity and the endorphins and the simple, unaffected _grace_ of her as she worked the plug in and out of him, again and again and again and again and _again_.

When he could no longer clench shut, she gave an approving murmur and removed the plug entirely. He whined, and rather than the expected smack, she rubbed the back of a thigh soothingly. He must be in a state; she was being _nice_ to him.

He heard her rummage in the trunk, heard a heavy metallic click as she chose a dildo and fastened it to her harness. He lifted his head, and his eyes went comically wide as he took in the sheer _size_ of the cock she’d chosen. “My largest,” she said, smugly. “I’ve only ever used this on girls.”

He moaned wordlessly at the mental image, and his head fell back. She chuckled. He heard her, _felt_ her crawling up the mattress, felt the weight shifting as she lined herself up. It was cold as it pressed against him, but warmed quickly as she worked inside, a little thrust at a time, until he could feel the leather of the harness against his arsehole.

“JesusfuckingChrist,” he whispered, and gasped, and gasped again; every slight movement seemed to shift it inside him, and he couldn’t help but strain and wiggle and _gasp_. She waited patiently while he tried to acclimate to the way every _breath_ made itself known, until he was humming happily and urging her on with little rolls of his hips.

“Good,” she murmured, and then her lips took his, her cock took him. And took him. And took, and gave, and _took_ , until he could no longer kiss her, until he was reduced to moaning lightly through swollen lips while her tongue dragged over them. His whole body trembled. His soul was on fire, and she was its arsonist.

He knew better than to come before he was told, and it took everything he had not to, everything he had to deny that rush. “FuckshitJesusfuck,” he said, then, “Gottastop, gottastop…”

She pulled out immediately, stopped kissing, stroking his hair. “Are you all right?” she asked, worried. Worried. Someone else, worrying about him. His chest seized up and he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply. “Did I hurt you?”

“No… just, going to… fucking… Jesus.”

“Going to come?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmmm, what _ever_ am I meant to do about that?” She worked her way down his chest with kisses, lower and lower and lower, until the kisses landed on the vein running along the underside of his aching, quivering cock. Each one made him twitch and shudder, and she didn’t stop, _mustn’t_ stop, until he was jerking almost convulsively against his restraints.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck _fuck_ …” His voice rose into a pleasingly helpless whimper, which escaped from the back of his throat when she took his cock and wrapped her hand around it and _squeezed_ , hard, so hard it would have made him scream if he had air to, and suddenly she was inside him again. “OhgodIcan’t do this,” he breathed, writhing helplessly, trying to get anything, something, _anything_ to touch his cock. His need for friction had gone beyond a craving, beyond even what he understood as a need, and passed into an obsession. “Ican’tdothisplease. _Please_.”

She shushed him gently, kissing his parted lips, heedless of his continued insistence that he couldn’t do it, couldn’t stand any more, please, _anything, please._ “Remember,” she whispered. “Remember at first?”

He did remember, remembered the first time she took him like this. Years ago now, but fresh as if it were yesterday, as if it were happening again, now, he was a virgin again and she was so powerful against his helplessness, hard against his soft, unyielding against his pliancy. And it was too much, and he told her to stop, and minutes later he was begging for her to do it again. So it went, all night, until finally she took pity on him and murmured,

“Breathe, Malcolm.”

“Breathe,” he said softly, and she said yes, good, _remember_.

His shuddering gasps slowed. There was air in the room again. He could control it, control what he felt, he was in control. Inhale, and it abated; exhale, and it filled him, that pressure, fullness, the nameless pleasure he needed more than oxygen.

He was Malcolm Tucker, and he was in control.

She left the dildo in him and made her way back down, took him into her mouth to make good on the promise of all those kisses earlier. And he moaned, his hips stuttered, but he didn’t get lost as he should have. He watched her mouth, the way her cheeks hollowed around him, and wished she would move the cock in him.

But, he realized, she didn’t need to.

He inhaled, and it abated; exhaled, and it filled him again.

His eyes rolled back into his head at the realization of the power she was giving him in his submission and he fucked himself with his breath, inhale exhale inhale exhale until finally, finally, it was enough, and he gasped that he was going to come between purely imaginary thrusts, and finished into her hand.

When he came to, he was eating out of it, eating his own fucking come out of her hand, and the absurdity made him giggle like a thoroughly debauched schoolgirl. She laughed, as well, and let him stop, wiping her hand and his softening cock clean on the sheets. She released his shackles and the straps holding his legs, rubbing each limb firmly to restore the circulation, and he’d have fucking purred if he had but the means.

He hoped she’d let him stay, for once. He didn’t think he’d be able to move for a week.

And he didn’t move for a week. He stayed with her, lounged in her living room while she was working and coming out when she was done to play. Finally, she murmured (her lips against the shell of his ear after breakfast) that he had his own house for a reason, and perhaps he’d better fuck off back where he came from. He laughed, and left, and when he got home he put the battery back in his phone and programmed her number into it.

She was saved simply as “The Woman.”

He wouldn’t call her, of course, as that wasn’t the arrangement. But when she called him, after he’d successfully maneuvered himself back into the government, he answered with a smile and the simple word, “Breathe.”


End file.
